The Charter
by KowaretaTsubasa
Summary: It's the epic battle between canon and fanon: Harry, Ron, and Hermione were pulled forth from their world to ours. Little did we know that our fics tainted their world. Now they hunt down fanfic authors to punish them accordingly. And painfully.
1. A Grim Begining

Like most of my fics, I have no clue where this idea popped out from.

Summary: Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger were pulled forth from their world, to ours. Little did we know that our fics had dynamically influenced their world as they knew it and made their lives a living hell. Now, they hunt down bad fan fic writers and punish them according to what the fan-writer wrote and to a mysterious charter the trio seem to possess. It is the beginning of dark days for the fan-writers as the trio continues to hunt them down as they desperately search for a way to placate the students' wrath. But what's this? Dumbledore is here too and he's on the fan-writers' side? Watch the epic battle unfold between fan-writer and word-born mages as fics and their writers are torn apart in these dark, dark tales.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I never will.

---

_To begin, I must tell you a tale that happened long ago. It is a ridiculous tale, but I will need you to suspend your disbelief momentarily. There was a school._

_This was no ordinary school of course. This was a magic school. Magic existed then. The school had been founded by four great and noble practitioners of magic: Godric Griffindor, Salazar Slytherin, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Helga Hufflepuff. At this magic school, some of the wisest and most powerful wizards and witches had been taught. They ranged from good to bad; From He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to Merlin and Dumbledore. All was grand--for a time. _

_Then, in a parallel world, another ridiculous thing happened that you may find hard to believe. "The Internet" was created. Yes, I know. All of your modern studies say that it was merely a myth, but dear reader, it really did exist. There is no proof nor account that I could provide to its existence, only my word. I hope it is a good and believable word at that._

_This is the true but incredibly gloomy tale of when these two strange concepts crossed-over and combined to cast into our world the most demonizing trio of word-born mages. _

_I cannot tell you how I came across this account, nor how this account came to be created. All I can tell you is that it was a very dark time for most female fan-writers. A very dark time indeed. Writer could not trust writer, and fics were hoarded and written in secret so only they who had written them could see. _

_For those who were slightly whorish in the want of attention, there were speakeasies dotted all over the landscape and some (so I'm told) vastly populated "Internet societies." Reviews were, of course, the common currency in these types of settings. _

_Most fan-writers now-a-days are fairly rich in reviews and take them for granted. As did most of the fan-writers shown in these accounts. However, there is one major difference. Quality. They had bloody quality. _

_So the fics were written and the reviews were paid, but still the writers were hunted. _

_---_

Julie Blank was a nice girl. She laughed often, donated to charity, and kept good care of her family and friends. But like so many other girl-next-door types, she had a dark secret. She wrote things. Not just any kind of things. Great and terrible things. So great and terrible were these things that they would throw He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named into awful hysterics. For, more often than not, she wrote "fan fiction" stories wherein He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was paired up with a young but gifted witch who was called "Hermione."

It was a grey, foggy afternoon. The rain, freshly fallen hours earlier, soaked the streets and sidewalks forming puddles. Under the burden of the water, the sodden trees seemed as though they could break at a moment's notice. The air was crisp and gave an internal kick to the lungs. Which, one would imagine, may get quite hazardous after a time and may ruin those vital organs.

Julie smiled and pulled her warm coat closer to her body and rubbed her hands together. She was to meet a few fellow fan-writers for lunch this afternoon. Sadly, she would never reach her destination.

Biting deeply into a soft, warm cinnamon bun she had purchased that very afternoon she strode briskly onwards, eager to meet her friends. With them, the red-haired girl anticipated, the inevitable discussion of Hermione's romantic interests would pursue. Always--and rightly, Julie thought smugly--she voted in favor of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Her friends would laugh and wave their hands, as if to dismiss the idea entirely, but little did they know that she was known as Voldemione--a certain website's most vicious and self-righteous supporter of her favorite pairing.

Finishing her cinnamon bun, she continued along the lonely path until she came to a great and ancient oak tree. There, she knelt down to tie her shoe and soon perceived a presence so drastically different and utterly alien from anything she had ever known.

Glancing around, she didn't see anything different or strange. The grass--a miniature and wild silvery-green forest--was still wet; the trees still drooped and retained a stiff armor of bark and leaf. Both sky and land proved no sudden absurdities. So what was different?

Footsteps.

Three people, two male, one female, approached from behind her. From what she could tell, they were teenagers, much like herself and wore strange black robes. Strangely _familiar_ robes. The female had bushy brown hair and seemed to possess a permanent scowl. Her pace was swift and filled with (from what Julie could observe) single-minded purpose. The boys seemed to be bickering over something, though Julie was not close enough to hear the topic.

Though they appeared as normal--albeit oddly dressed--teenagers, there was something about them that just wasn't right. She pretended to tie her shoe while stealing subtle glances at them. Which was rather difficult to do, as they were heading straight for her.

Something finally struck her as odd. _No one else is around_, she thought, _and I know I did not pass them along the way, because I would have seen them. Could they, perhaps, be following me? Are they going to mug me? _

She looked around for any other people that could allay her irrational worry, but there were none. She stood up and decided that if she was to be mugged, or attacked, she might as well meet the collision head-on. The brown-haired girl stopped, flanked by the boys who had ceased their bickering a foot away from Julie and inquired, "Are you Julie Blank?"

Julie blinked and stared at the unusual teenagers, perplexed. Who were these people and what did they want with her?

"Well?" asked the girl. "Are you or aren't you?"

"Er…" said Julie inadequately, "yes."

One of the boys by the demanding girl's side fidgeted and scratched his head. Julie, distracted, glanced at him. Green eyes. Emerald green eyes. And on his forehead, a scar--a scar shaped like a lightening bolt!

"Oh… my…" breathed Julie staring at the boy's head. Unbidden from her lips came two words, "_Harry Potter!_"

Julie became ecstatic. Maybe, just maybe, she had fallen through a hole, or a vortex, or a portal, or a temporal once-in-a-lifetime counter-intuitive dimensional rift. Then again, they _could _be cosplayers. However, since a large portion of Julie's rationale was missing, she completely ignored that option.

The teen smiled grimly and tried to reposition his bangs.

"Oh-em-gee!" exclaimed the girl. Evidently she had spent too long a time writing in chat-speak that it had accidentally, or perhaps intentionally, crept into her speech pattern.

The girl whom Julie assumed to be Hermione pulled a packet of papers out of her robes.

"You wrote _Dark Heart: Journey thru Voldie-boy's love?_"

"Yes."

Ron--for he couldn't be anyone else with hair like that--took the papers and glanced at them.

"About Hermione falling in love with V-Voldemort after she's been kicked out of Hogwarts and has to work in Hogsmeade as a prostitute? Gets addicted, deals smack, has a baby, kills Harry, and snogs V-V-Voldemort."

Julie nodded. Heart fluttering. She didn't notice the surprised glances that the boy got from his friends.

Hermione and Ron then looked at Harry expectantly. The boy's lips twisted into a nervous grimace.

"I don't want to," he told them honestly, almost humbly.

Hermione sighed and once again pulled something from inside her robes. This time it was a small black book that looked as though it was brand new. On its cover, in shiny yellow lettering, it read: The Charter.

"Harry," said Hermione softly, "I know we all wish there were a better way, but we have got to do this."

"Yeah," agreed Ron. "In order to save our world we have to _fix_ it first."

While this exchange was going on, Julie had been staring blankly, wondering what on earth they were talking about. Harry took the book from Hermione.

He watched Julie for a moment, looking like a person who was trapped with no other way out. He opened the book. He read over the words then turned back to his friends.

"This could cause a greater catastrophe. We all know what happens with inanimate objects that can think for themselves."

"Didn't stop you from reading Riddle's diary," muttered Ron.

"And it didn't stop you from following the Half-Blood Prince's notes."

"But the Half-Blood Prince wasn't--"

"_This_ book is helpful. It told us what was happening. It told us why. Now it's time to use it to stop the bad and get back the good."

Harry sighed regretfully. Hard times--_harder_ times--had fallen upon them ever since that strange, wonderful girl had suddenly appeared at school. Not to mention his even stranger relationship with Draco. Or the time that he could have sworn he saw Sirius back from the dead and kissing Remus. Things had become far worse since then. Hermione's clothing style had changed, uniforms were no longer necessary, Ron was a jerk, Dumbledore had snogged Dobby, and Harry had slept with Snape. He couldn't remember. He couldn't remember it all. So much wrong… so wrong he couldn't remember.

But Hermione and Ron did. They remembered. And they told him that he needed to do this. He needed to do this to save everyone. And only he could do it.

Harry knew a destiny when he heard one.

He trusted his friends, but they were angry. Angry at what had happened. Angry at what they could remember that he could not. They wanted it to change. They wanted it to end. Harry, too, wanted the things that he could not remember to go away.

The book had told them. The book had told them that demons who had called themselves "Fan Fiction Writers" had turned their greedy eyes to his world and decided to devour it. They were a manipulative race, but they couldn't directly taint a world with their hands. Only the power of their Words could do that. And the Words that the demons held in their possession were a powerful and unparalleled set of Words at that. There was no chance against them…

…unless they used stronger Words.

He held up the book, pulled out his wand, and pointed it at the fanfic writer.

He read aloud, "I, born of Words, invoke _these_ Words to rectify the wrongs transgressed upon my world and to restore the law of canon."

The wind picked up, Harry's wand shimmered, and Julie's eyes widened. He was using magic--on her! She glanced at the brown-haired girl at Harry's side. She was not smiling. Neither was Ron. She suddenly knew what was happening.

She'd heard the word 'canon' before. The word was printed on an occasional review and usually belonged to a person who was totally trashing one's story. The people who used these reviews as currencies were some of the most arrogant, mean-spirited, and self-delusional people she had ever come across. What was worse was that they actually converted _true_ fanfic writers--her fellow comrades and writers of every non-canon situation--over to their side. In other words--"Goodfic" missionaries. She'd scoffed then, but now she beheld their true power. Certainly the _real_ Harry Potter characters wouldn't adhere to canon if they ever turned up in _real_ life? These people must be imposters, dirtying the great and noble art that was fan fiction.

She ran.

She looked over her shoulder just in time to see Harry twitch his wand hand and finish the last line of the spell.

"Recede to the shadows from whence you came--fan-writer!"

Stripped of the power of Words, a demon would instantly be destroyed the book said, but Harry was unsure. Surely the power of a Word depended upon the how the Word was used? Couldn't he change the Words--Words that were said to have existed before even the time of thought--and redefine them?

Julie Blank didn't have time to blink before the spell hit her.

_---_

Somewhere far away, a boy who had just finished writing a Mary-Sue story for the Lord of the Rings fandom paused momentarily to listen as he uploaded the fic onto FFN. What he heard was the sound of a devastating shatter and a scream of unadulterated dread. He shivered and pulled his sparkly pink scarf closer around his neck.

_The hunt had begun! _

---

Author's note: I have no clue whether or not there's a "Voldemione" on FFN or not. Apologies to any existing "Voldemione" but it is a rather silly name.

If anyone would like to give advice, constructive criticism, flames, suggestions, or anything else, I'd be glad to hear it. This is my first Harry Potter fic and your comments would be greatly welcomed. Be as harsh as you like. This may be my first Harry Potter fic, and I may be unused to the canon, but it is not the first fic I have written.

Thank you.

-Kowareta


	2. Deuxmach

**The Charter**

Chapter two

By: Kowareta

Quick! Find the Mary-Sue!

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

---

She had been the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen with blonde hair so light it was almost white and dazzling blue eyes. It didn't seem she could even be human, and indeed no human could compare to her beauty. Harry didn't think even a Veela could surpass it. However, she was a _witch_—a powerful one—and she'd faced off with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and lived, too.

Her lips were red. Lipstick, he'd assumed.

She'd danced gracefully under the moon, the pale light sinking into her skin, as she sang to him. He didn't remember the words, he didn't need to. They had been a liquid, flowing past his ears like a magnificent, bubbling wine. He was drunk on the sounds, drunk on the melody, drunk on the words. The stars shone in her hair.

Her lips were red.

She revealed her bare white skin: bright, unmarked, ivory skin that seemed to repel the night, as if the darkness was afraid to join her. She was a moving doll that stared at you knowingly, that knew you more intimately than anyone else had ever known you. She knew you in ways you _knew_ she shouldn't know. A girl dressed in the struggling night, stars in her hair, moons in her eyes…

—Her lips were red—

…And the whole universe in her mouth.

—Their kiss—

She was the most beautiful thing in the world, and it hurt so much to look at her. It hurt so much to turn away, to move away, to get on with the life you were living. You'd think about her, and she'd take you with her, she'd take you away from you. The most beautiful thing…

Her lips were red…

..With the blood of his world.

The most beautiful thing… made of nothing.

Stars in her hair, moons in her eyes, universe in her mouth, and his _soul _in her stomach.

…A monster of no earthy flesh.

She'd touched him…

Harry woke, gasping, clutching at his nightshirt as he fumbled for his glasses. When he found them, he jammed them onto his nose. The light turned on.

"Nightmare?" asked Hermione. She was standing in the doorway dressed in plaid pajamas. Her hair was still bushy—after the terrors of his own world this was a good sign—and fell about her shoulders, unbrushed and unkempt. She was frowning—which had always been a common occurrence back when his world had been true, but now it seemed she never smiled—and inquired, "Was it _her? _Was it Mary?"

Harry swallowed.

The room was cramped. Books and clothes littered the ground, and Ron and Harry's traveling trunks sat at the end of their cots. There was only one tiny window in the room and it sat comfortably above Ron's sleeping place in the corner of the room. In actuality, Ron's cot looked more like the nest of some strange bird with the way he arranged the blankets and buried himself in it. Hermione tapped her foot.

"It's always her," she continued when Harry didn't answer. "You never dream about anyone else but her. You never dream of Neville—I know you know what happened; you were _there_. You never dream of poor Professor McGonagal. Never Colin, never _Ginny_—"

"Stop," said Harry. "I know, I know. But it's not like I can control my dreams. They're just dreams."

Hermione tapped her foot again, looking at him doubtfully, as if she expected something more from him. She fingered the book in her hand: The Charter. Harry's green eyes watched it for a moment.

Words…

On the wall hung an orange clock whose hands slowly counted away minutes and hours, and days, and weeks. Its hands pointed towards midnight.

The floor began to shake.

"S'not fair," mumbled Ron, pulling the blankets closer around him. "Was having a good dream, too."

The floor continued to shake, and jerk, and soon the walls were doing it too, like some popular new teenybopper dance craze.

The redhead boy soon gave up on trying to maintain a quake-free existence and sat up looking out the window. Mist curled, finger-like, and groped towards the building. Ron could just make out the ground below.

"The train tracks are always there, but when we _leave_ and go look for them…" the boy trailed off.

Harry yawned and scratched his leg.

Ron was talking about the phenomenon that came with living in Duexmach. The Charter hadn't exactly called it Duexmach, it had called it a world between worlds, a half-way place. Hermione had named it "Dues Ex Machina" and after a while Ron had gotten lazy and renamed it Duexmach.

Duexmach consisted of only three-tenths of a city block. On that city block there was the apartment building, an open market, a few lonely office buildings, and a train station. Anything past that one tenth was filled surrounded by a mist so thick not even the sharpest of metaphorical blades could metaphorically cut through. They'd tried to go exploring in the mist once and ended up walking for miles, or days, only to find their way back in front of the train station.

The train station had a chain link fence around it and no entryway. At midnight every night a train departed. On one such night they'd gone down to the tracks to see if they could find a way onto the train, but when they'd gotten down to the tracks, the only thing they could find was the blare of the train and the whoosh of the wind as it barreled its way down the tracks they could not see. However, whenever they were inside the apartment and looked out Ron's window, they could always see an old red steam engine locomotive barrel past, a rivulet of steam pouring out of its top, and an eerie mist threading out of its way like a shadowy octopus withdrawing wispy tentacles.

And the thing about Deuxmach was that there were no _people._

Hermione leaned over Ron's shoulder to track the train's progress.

"I wonder where it goes?" she said aloud.

"What's The Charter say?" asked Ron, looking at Hermione with his ears turning pink.

She consulted her book.

Ron once again glanced out the window. The train had passed, thick, misty fog in its wake. The misty tendrils reached out, wraithlike, to the red-haired boy who shrank back and found new interest in his bed sheets. Hermione was still looking through the book. Harry was staring off into space, no doubt plagued by thoughts.

Ron felt sleepy.

And hungry.

And scared.

---

"Stand up my brothers and sisters! Hard have we strived and long have we yearned for this day. This day of days! The Pairing Crack Pact! The PCP!"

Molly Payne remembered that the attendees had cheered, stood, and clapped. A few individuals pumped their fists into the air, and others decided it might be fun to start fist fights with their neighbors. It was New York after all.

Molly had smiled and punched her best friend and fellow roommate Karen Drake. They had laughed to themselves and surged forward with the rest of the crowd as her other fellow fan fiction writers filtered around the building looking at various tables full of various strange works. Molly and Karen had their own table to attend to: The prestigious Ron 'x' Moody table where they would hand out links to their stories about this particular pairing.

They were good writers too, or at least society considered them as such. _Obviously_ whenever the whole of society considered a few individuals good at a skill those who disagreed were nothing more than jealous. The two girls were rolling in reviews and had enough to pay for minions to protect them against the ever looming threat of con-crit. In fact, they could have built a mansion out of loyal and dedicated fans. The only reason they hadn't was because they thought it might get a little crowded.

…And was probably no good during winter.

…And if you considered bathroom breaks…

"Wasn't it great," Molly remembered saying, "the way they created a slash pit instead of a mosh pit?"

Karen had grinned as they crossed the street and cut into an alley. It was the proper kind of alley where shadows were clustered in the corners and everything.

"So what convenient plot device are we going to use for our next Ron-Moody fic?"

"Hmmm," she had murmured, like all great thinkers of the modern century. "Let's do something a little dark and angsty."

"We've been doing dark and angsty forever! Can't we just do something fluffy? Like… Moody and Ron go out for sushi and end up confessing their love for one another."

"Nah. That's clichéd. We need something original… like… Ron gets raped by Voldemort and Moody rushes in to comfort him and they end up having hot healing sex!"

The ficcers had considered this for a moment.

"That's great!" said Karen. "Nobody's done a story like that before!"

Pleased with themselves the girls had continued on their way home.

Here… here was where Molly's memory got a little fuzzy. She remembered that a red-headed boy, who looked like he was in high school (but was wearing funny clothes), stepped out just as they were about to reach the mouth of the alleyway. She could have just ignored him, she could have just looked away, but for a second she saw his face and saw the look of pure disgust.

Karen, too, had caught the look.

"Hey, what's your problem?"

The boy had opened his mouth, angry, but seemed at a loss for words. Or perhaps he had so many words to choose from, he didn't know where to start.

This is where Molly's memory got really obscure.

Two other figures, a girl with a book, and a boy with glasses joined the red-headed boy. The girl was asking them something about fan fiction. Karen had answered and the red-head's lips flapped open and closed, still speechless. The boy with glasses, seemed twitchy though he tried to hide it, and the girl with book said something bossy.

The red-head had started to shout, pulled something from his funny clothes, and waved it about. The bossy girl tried to calm him, but he only took the book and then…

…Words.

And terror…

---

Glumly, the trio headed back to Deuxmach in silence.

"Ron…" said Hermione.

"You read what The Charter says! They're monsters! Like Harry's pretty girl back when all this started!"

"Yes," said Hermione as Harry sent Ron a warning look. "Yes, but it's Harry's job to—"

"You heard what they were saying! Why's it always Harry who does the—?"

"Look, it says right here in The Charter that—"

Any normal observer would see three children pass under the archway of a looming building. Any normal observer would find that they did not come out the other side and, in the fashion of really cheap plot hole sealing literary devices, would tell themselves, "Well gosh, if I saw them go under, but not out, then I must have not really seen them at all."

Most people's minds can't handle the sheer reality of what their eyes tell them and instead tend to believe the sheer unreality their imagination provides them.

But _he _was not a normal observer. His eyes were blank, a smooth plane of starless night, and his teeth gleamed in a way that suggested the word "sharp" contrary to the evidence. When you shook hands with him, it always left you feeling cold…

He was the eater of worlds and shadows lived in his skin.

His name is Mr.Wonderful.

And Mr.Wonderful smiled, cheerily.

---


End file.
